


No place like home

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Facial Shaving, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29040321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: Bruce woke up and his first thought wasthree more days. Three more days, and Clark would be home. Three more days, and Clark would: drag him to bed when he stayed up too late working on his projects; find him on a rooftop and steal a kiss before leaving to save a cat in a tree; wrap his arms around him and not let go.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 19
Kudos: 149





	No place like home

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [No appointment necessary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703840), though you don’t need to have read that one for this one to make sense. I wasn’t quite sure how to tag this (I settled on “References to depression”) but this fic contains a brief conversation about managing depression. If you feel like there is a more appropriate tag for this, please let me know! I’m all about accurate tagging.
> 
> Enjoy!

The days without Clark were grey and lasted forever. It was as if when Superman had left the solar system, he had taken the sun with him. The days were overcast and Bruce slept in later than he usually did, fought harder than he needed. Bruce could _feel_ his absence. He felt the silence on patrol where he had grown used to Superman’s occasional chatter, his quiet laugh and encouraging words. He felt the invisible outline of him in Bruce’s bed. Bruce stayed on his side of the bed, but in the mornings he’d wake up and discover he’d rolled onto the left side of the bed, his nose buried in the pillow that, if he pretended hard enough, still smelled of Clark. (When had they gotten to a point where they had _sides of the bed_?)

He had been gone for two weeks and four days.

Bruce woke up and his first thought was _three more days_. Three more days, and Clark would be home. Three more days, and Clark would: drag him to bed when he stayed up too late working on his projects; find him on a rooftop and steal a kiss before leaving to save a cat in a tree; wrap his arms around him and not let go.

He checked his phone. Two missed calls and half-a-dozen missed texts. Tim asking if he was coming to the board meeting. His secretary, presumably calling him to ask the same thing. It was eleven thirty. The board meeting had started at nine. Of course he wasn’t going. While he slept, Alfred had brought a pot of tea and the morning’s paper. The porcelain was lukewarm against his fingertips. If Clark had been here, he would have reheated it with his heat vision and Bruce would tease him about it, telling him that Alfred would throw him out for desecrating tea like that. _Won’t you protect me?_ Clark would ask, abandoning the tea to straddle Bruce’s hips, pinning him down with a playful grin. _When it comes to Alfred and tea, I’m afraid I can’t._ Bruce would reply and tilt his chin for a kiss. The tea would be forgotten.

Bruce skimmed the paper and dog-eared the pages with articles he wanted to look at more closely later. After twenty minutes, he forced himself to get up. He made the bed and brushed his teeth in the shower. Clean and naked, he blow-dried his hair and studied himself in the mirror. No bad cuts, but the skin stretched over his left side was mottled and bruised, a memento from an encounter with KGBeast several nights ago. He poked at it. The pain was a welcome sensation, sharp and bright. When Clark came back, he would tell Bruce off for being so reckless and breathe cold air over the bruises, brushing iced lips over his skin. He scratched his jaw, feeling the length of his beard. Maybe _beard_ was generous, but he hadn’t bothered shaving for the better part of a week, not since the pummelling from KGBeast that had made Alfred raise an eyebrow and suggest that maybe a few days of rest and research might be warranted.

He’d shave tomorrow. Clark liked his two-day stubble.

When he came out of the bathroom, Tim had texted again. No need for Bruce to come to any other meetings today, he wrote in his near-indecipherable shorthand. A follow-up message reminded him to not forget to eat and try not to mope. Bruce reacted to the first message and decided to leave the second unaddressed. He was not _moping_.

He pulled on a pair of boxer-briefs and joggers. Maybe he’d go for a run. Maybe he’d see if the Batcomputer had finished its trawl for any leads on the rumour that Scarecrow was coming back to town. Maybe – maybe he’d go back to bed. Maybe he could have a whisky with lunch. Maybe he should go for a drive. Maybe he should buy a new car.

An unexpected sound interrupted his thoughts. A soft tap-tap-tap of a fingernail against glass.

Superman stood on the balcony, kiss curl falling into his forehead. He smiled softly and his eyes were warm. To Bruce, he glowed like the sun.

Bruce tripped over his feet in his hurry to make it to the balcony door.

‘You’re back early.’ 

Clark floated inside and put his hand on Bruce’s cheek. His palm was warm. Bruce leaned into the touch, planting a kiss on Clark’s wrist.

‘We sorted out the dispute early.’ Clark rubbed his thumb over Bruce’s cheek, brushing over his lower lip. ‘And I missed you.’

Bruce closed his eyes, relishing Clark’s touch – warm, soft, _here_. Clark kissed his temple, the scar under his eye, his cheek, his jaw, his mouth. Each kiss perfect, each kiss longed for.

‘I missed you.’ Bruce’s fingers found Clark’s waist, the slick-soft suit material lukewarm under his fingertips. ‘God, I missed you so much.’

‘Did you take care of yourself?’ Clark asked, still kissing, each press of his lips against a new spot of Bruce’s face, Bruce’s neck.

Bruce opened his eyes and looked up at Clark. He looked at him with those eyes, blue like the ocean, so blue that Bruce could drown in them. Bruce pulled him closer, folding his hands in the small of Clark’s back. Clark still had his palm against Bruce’s cheek. He worked his other hand through Bruce’s hair, carding his fingers through the wayward curls.

‘I tried.’ Bruce tilted his head and Clark obliged with a kiss, keeping their faces close. Bruce breathed against his lips. ‘I’m no good without you.’

‘Bruce…’

Clark didn’t have to finish the thought. This was well-trod ground. Bruce didn’t want to fight about this, not right now, not when the sun was finally out after weeks of rain. He kissed Clark instead. Long and slow and indulgent. This is how he wanted Clark, forever and close and the sunlight in his darkness. He had spent the weeks since Clark had reminded him of their anniversary trying to figure out what he could give Clark to show how much he adored and wanted him, but nothing he thought of felt enough, was quite right. He couldn’t think of a better way to show how he felt than to let himself be tender with Clark for as long as he’d let him. He combed his fingers through Clark’s hair, his heart singing at the softness of those curls, the soft sighs Clark blessed him with.

‘I like the beard.’ Clark murmured, brushing fingertips over Bruce’s cheeks.

‘I was going to shave it.’

‘Do you want a hand?’

‘Are you offering?’

In response, Clark wrapped an arm around his waist and then Bruce was floating, carried in Superman’s inescapable grip. He cleared off the bathroom countertop and set Bruce on it. Clark turned the tap on and rummaged in the drawers, one hand resting on Bruce’s thigh as though without it, Bruce would float away. No, Bruce was the stone that would drag everything down.

‘This the right one?’

He held up a safety razor and when Bruce nodded, he put a new razor blade between his lips while he opened the razor. He tossed the old blade in the trash, throwing it perfectly without even looking, and replaced it with the new one. His lips were uncut from the blade. If Bruce had put the blade between his lips, he would have tasted blood where it bit into him, a reminder that he was alive, that he could still feel.

Bruce leaned his head against the mirror and watched Clark work. There was something strange about watching him, resplendent in his Kryptonian suit, working up a lather with Bruce’s brush and soap. It was like one of those _Find five mistakes!_ pictures that always cluttered the back of Dick’s cereal boxes. The first mistake was that somehow Superman was in love with him.

‘I’m not good enough for you,’ Bruce found himself saying as Clark worked the lather over his cheeks, down his throat.

Clark sighed, deeply, unhappily.

‘Bruce.’ There were countless small v:s in Clark’s forehead when he frowned. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

‘Why are you with me?’

Clark put the razor down and put his hands on the top of Bruce’s thighs, thumbs whispering against the inside of his thighs. Bruce tried to move into the touch, but Clark’s fingers were firm and he couldn’t move. (As always, Clark’s inhuman strength used against him had him stirring, his body unable to contain its delight at the power he could exact on him.)

‘I’m with you because I want to be. Because I love you, and because my life is better with you in it. No,’ Bruce had shook his head at that, and Clark’s fingers caught his jawline, grip gentle through the shaving lather, ‘don’t shake your head at me telling you the truth. I don’t want us to fight, not when I’ve not seen you for so long and I’ve missed you so much, but – you make me worry. I know you don’t want to, but I think you need to talk to someone.’

‘I can’t talk to someone. _You_ know that, Smallville.’

‘You’ve got enough money to find a therapist who will keep quiet.’

‘And I’ve got enough enemies who know Batman’s identity that wouldn’t think twice about maiming a healthcare professional to find out my dirty secrets.’

‘Medication, then.’

‘No.’

Clark groaned and leaned his forehead against Bruce’s collarbone. He exhaled hot on Bruce’s chest. Bruce could sense Clark’s patience growing thin.

‘There’s nothing wrong with taking antidepressants, Bruce.’

Bruce breathed. They’d had this argument time and again. Hell, Clark wasn’t even the first person with whom he’d had this argument. Clark was right and there was nothing wrong with taking antidepressants, but Bruce _couldn’t_. He’d laid out his reasons time and again. He couldn’t risk the side effects. He knew how his body worked, how his mind worked, and adjusting that would require recalibrating almost every part of his work. He couldn’t risk building a dependency. He couldn’t risk the withdrawal effects if he were to be captured. He got along. He didn’t want to die. Maybe he could feel better. But he could make it through each day.

‘I know, Clark.’ Bruce put his hands over Clark’s. Their hands fit so well together. ‘Can we talk about this later? I think it’s very unfair of you to want to discuss this when you’re touching me and I’ve not seen you for weeks. It’s distracting.’

‘Yeah? Does it help my case?’

Clark’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled, bright and beautiful. There was shaving lather in his hair. He moved his hands, up to the top of Bruce’s thighs, spreading his legs and brushing his thumbs over the inside of his thighs, over the spots that always had Bruce close his eyes and sigh. Bruce rested his head against the mirror and shivered under Clark’s touch.

‘Your case is on hold, pending additional review. When the committee has decided to re-open your case, you will be notified by mail.’ Bruce opened an eye. ‘Now, I can feel the lather dripping off my face.’

‘Oh, it’s not that bad. But you’re right, we should get this done because, well, there’s other things I want to do.’ Clark picked up the razor again and dipped it in the water.

‘Mm? Tell me about these things.’

‘I want to take your clothes off.’ Clark started on Bruce’s left cheek, smooth and measured movements. The water in the sink grew cloudy with lather. ‘I want to feel you against me. I want you to tell me about everything you did when I was gone. I want to tell you about the strange food I ate – there was this fruit that was like a pomegranate and a Jell-o cup all at once, and it was absolutely delicious. Though I guess you don’t like Jell-o.’

‘I have nothing against Jell-o. I did plenty of Jell-o shots in college.’

Clark huffed and shook his head. He was smiling.

‘Jell-o shots are _not_ the same thing, Bruce. I’ll make you some _real_ Jell-o sometime. Now, be quiet and lean back so I can do your throat. I don’t want to nick you.’ Clark shook water off the razor. ‘Now, coming back to the things I want to do. _Well_.’ He laughed to himself and dragged the razor up Bruce’s throat. ‘I want to make you come. I want to make you come _a lot_. I want to suck you off and I want you to suck me off and I want you to fuck me and I want to fuck you and I want to wake up next to you and drink coffee with you and watch you do the Sunday crossword puzzle. I want to tell my parents about us and I want to tell the League and I want you to tell your sons that they’re right.’

‘Right about what?’ Bruce asked.

‘They’ve been speculating. Damian wanted to ask you outright, but Tim thought you’d get around to telling them at some point.’

‘Were you eavesdropping?’

‘Not _intentionally_. I just heard Damian actually say my name instead of referring to me as _that alien_ so I was curious what it was about.’ Clark took a step back. ‘Right, done. Wash your face.’

Bruce rinsed his face. Clark had done a good job. When Bruce had patted his face dry, Clark whisked the towel from his grip and rubbed the lather out of his hair.

‘Now, some of these things are _very_ achievable.’ Bruce said and caught Clark by the cape, pulling him closer, bringing their bodies together. He brushed his lips over Clark’s jawline. Clark shuddered. ‘You, however, are wearing far too many clothes.’

Two seconds, a gust of air, and Bruce found himself on his back on the bed, a naked Clark on top of him. He was golden, toned and perfect, and he was looking at Bruce with an expression that on anyone else would be frightening, but on Clark’s sweet lips that hunger was tempting, inviting. It had been more than a year, and Bruce could still not wrap his head around that Clark _wanted_ him so much. Clark kissed him on the mouth once before making his way down Bruce’s chest, planting wet open-mouthed kisses along his skin, breathing icy air over his bruises. He nosed his way along the elastic of Bruce’s joggers, rubbing his mouth over Bruce’s clothed cock. If Bruce hadn’t been halfway hard already, the feeling of Clark pressing down on him would have been enough.

Clark wrapped an arm under Bruce’s shoulders and grabbed under his knee. He flipped them over with an unearthly grace and then his fingers were brushing up and down his back, dipping under the waistband and following the curve of his ass.

‘I missed you,’ Clark said, kissing Bruce’s throat and pressing his fingers down against soft flesh, working over muscles and moving down, inwards.

‘I missed you,’ Bruce replied and every time he tried to pull back so he could kick off his pants Clark caught him and kissed him again. ‘Come on, let me go, let me get my damn pants off.’

Clark had the nerve to _giggle_.

Bruce discarded his joggers and straddled Clark’s hips. He ran his fingers through Clark’s tempestuous hair; he kissed Clark’s welcoming mouth; he rolled his hips and Clark’s moan was perfectly matched with his own. Clark didn’t seem to be sure where to put his hands, darting from Bruce’s hair, hips, ass, shoulder, face. Finally, finally, he reached between them and wrapped his fingers around them both. Wet wet wet, Clark was always so slick and he felt so good, silk and velvet and everything Bruce wanted. Clark let him set the pace and he fucked them both into Clark’s loose fist. Slowly, slowly. Bruce wasn’t in a hurry, because Clark was back and he wasn’t going anywhere and he was home and he was _his_.

‘I love you.’ Clark stumbled over the words, his breath short and his eyes grown dark. There was no good reason for him to lose his breath, yet he always seemed to when Bruce got him into bed. Bruce had meant to investigate it, but every time he remembered this plan he was in the middle of making Clark into a beautiful mess, gasping and panting and begging. No one else had ever made Bruce feel the way Clark made him feel, worthy and good and complete.

‘I love you.’

Bruce could taste Clark’s smile, sunlight and the breeze of the seaside on a hot summer’s day. Clark had his fingers in Bruce’s hair, holding him close. They breathed the same air and Bruce felt Clark’s whimpered sounds of pleasure against his mouth, his murmured mantra of _love you love you love you_. Clark came first, his head thrown back, the beautiful column of his throat exposed beneath Bruce’s lips, and Bruce couldn’t last any longer, not when Clark shivered like that, not when Clark’s smile was so blissful and calm and it was all for him. Clark’s brightness and his praise carried Bruce through his climax, one hand around him and the other in his hair, pressing feather-light kisses all over his face.

When Bruce could do something other than just breathe heavily against Clark’s face, he rolled onto his side, stretching for the tissues on the bedside table and cleaning off Clark’s hand and stomach before wiping down his own stomach and falling back onto the bed. In a moment, Clark had rolled over to him and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. Their chests were sticky where they touched and Bruce didn’t mind at all.

‘Hey there,’ Clark murmured and kissed the corner of Bruce’s mouth. ‘Worth the wait?’

‘Never go anywhere again.’ Bruce’s fingertips brushed through Clark’s hair and traced down the curve of his ear.

‘I can’t promise that. But I’ll do my best.’ Clark tilted his face and kissed the inside of Bruce’s wrist, smiling against his skin.

Bruce hummed in acknowledgement. He wasn’t so selfish that he would ever try to convince Clark to stay away from doing good.

‘I’m glad you’re home.’

The words were out of his mouth before he realised what he had said. Yet the unease he expected to feel at being open and vulnerable was nowhere to be found, and instead he felt at peace, buoyed by Clark’s arm around him, Clark’s unwavering smile, Clark’s soft kiss on the tip of his nose.

‘I’m happy to be home.’

It was easy to drift off in Clark’s arms, and he fell into a peaceful sleep. Bruce woke up to the vision of Clark sleeping, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, his mouth half-open, each breath melodious and quiet. He didn’t know how long they had slept but in that moment he felt certain he would be happy to stay like this forever. As if awoken by Bruce’s eyes on him, Clark peeked open an eye under long lashes.

‘What now?’

Bruce leaned in for a kiss. He opened his mouth to say that, considering that Clark was on leave for work for another four days and that Bruce himself was a notoriously flaky CEO, there wasn’t really any reason for them to leave this bed when he heard the front door of the house slam closed. Considering how far his rooms were from the entrance, it was an impressive effort.

‘Alfred and Damian usually have afternoon tea around this time. That’s them coming home now. Should we join them?’

‘Are you sure?’

Clark stroked his fingers down Bruce’s side, his eyes shy and hopeful. Bruce looked at him. Clark was an impossible combination of strength and kindness, of levity and gravitas, innocence and wisdom. He was perfect. And he wanted Bruce. Despite all of his flaws, his stubbornness and his commitment to mission, he loved Bruce.

Bruce kissed him.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’


End file.
